


swipe right

by hippocampers



Series: swipe right [1]
Category: History Boys - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, Tinder fic, donald scripps is a technological dinosaur god bless his soul
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-18
Updated: 2018-02-18
Packaged: 2019-03-20 20:56:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,407
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13725816
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hippocampers/pseuds/hippocampers
Summary: "Just let me show you this app. If you hate it, delete it as soon as you get home. Indulge me, Scrippsy.”-Unsatisfied with his friend's lack of suitors, Dakin sets a reluctant Scripps up on Tinder.





	swipe right

“I don’t need your help, Stuart. I’m perfectly capable of finding myself somebody – I just don’t have the time.”

It was by no means the first time Scripps had had this discussion, and yet Dakin still seemed to be hearing it for the first time. That, or he’d ignored it every other time. He rolled his eyes at Stuart’s disbelieving scoff, disguising his frustration with a measured sip of tea.

“Don’t have time, my arse,” Stuart said, fixing Scripps with a piercing glare that after so many years, had little effect. “You have time to come over here and drink Tom’s fancy tea and eat your way through our stockpile of Bourbons. Why not use that time more productively and get yourself some… company?” This was coupled with a suggestive waggle of Stuart’s eyebrows. Scripps ignored it.

“Don’t buy nice biscuits and invite me over if you’re going to moan at me for eating them,” he replied mildly. “And I don’t need _company_. Last company I had ended badly, and I don’t feel up to it again.”

“Poor bobble, with his delicate little heart,” Dakin teased, tone admittedly more mocking than affectionate. “It’s been over a year since Anna. You must be over her by now.”

Truth be told, Don thinks he likely _is_ over Anna. But it had taken so long to reach a comfortable point with her that the thought of doing it all over again with someone new was exhausting. He had fumbled around asking the church organist to dinner for just under six and a half months, and it had been longer still for him to pluck up the nerve to kiss her and ask her to bed. Still, she’d stuck around for a good couple of years, and if he’d tried hard enough, Don thinks he could have loved her.

So yes, he is ‘over’ Anna, despite so rarely being under her. But Dakin need not know that he can count the number of times they slept together on one hand – it’s easier to pretend he’s heartbroken than admit his embarrassing romantic lethargy.

“I’m not over her. It still makes me incredibly sad. In fact, this whole conversation is sending me into a dark spiral of depression, and the only thing that is keeping me afloat is the thought of another few custard creams,” he tells Stuart drily, reaching for the plate of biscuits that Dakin nudges away from him with an argyle-socked foot.

“You glutton,” Dakin scolds. “I’m sure that’s a sin.”

“Fuck off.”

“That too,” Dakin says smugly. “Look, you can gorge yourself on custard creams to your heart’s content if you just let me show you this app. If you hate it, delete it as soon as you get home. Indulge me, Scrippsy.”

Scripps sighs heavily. He’s got a lifetime of indulging Dakin behind him; why break tradition now? After a moment of staring lovingly at the plate on the coffee table – and notably less lovingly at Dakin – he acquiesces, reaching into his pocket and thrusting the device into his friend’s outstretched hand. In return, Stuart grins wickedly, and removes his foot from the edge of the plate.

“There, go wild, you boar,” he says, already tapping away at Don’s password-protected phone. “Still using T.S. Eliot’s birthday as a pin, Donnie? Silly lad.”

“Fuck _off_ ,” Scripps huffs, once again questioning why he still keeps in touch with Cutler’s biggest pain in the arse. _The biscuits_ , he reminds himself. _The biscuits and Tom’s Lapsang Souchong_.

Ever the attentive host, Dakin ignores Scripps in favour of messing around on Don’s phone, occasionally chuckling under his breath. To occupy himself, Scripps rises from the chocolate leather settee – Dakin’s penchant for luxury has clearly rubbed off on his partner – and wanders towards the walnut bookshelf by the window. He runs his fingers across the spines, a small sense of satisfaction washing over him to see his own name gracing the shelf. The book doesn’t look as though it’s been opened, but that’s to be expected; plays have never been Tom’s thing, and Dakin had received a loose-leaf copy of his own before the play was even published. Still, it makes him feel warm and happy to know his friends have made the effort to purchase his work.

“You’ve got my book,” Scripps says, mostly to the empty walls.

“Hmm?” Dakin doesn’t look up from the phone. “Oh, yeah. Tom wanted one – said we should show our support. I told him I’d got that copy you sent me but he said that wasn’t the point.”

Don smiled; Dakin never was one for niceties if not absolutely necessary. “Well, tell him I appreciate it.”

“You can tell him yourself if he ever gets back from the physio. I’ve half a mind to accuse him of having an affair the amount of time he spends there,” Dakin says, but there’s a softness to his voice.

“Does it help?” Scripps asks, making his way back to the plush leather sofa. Stuart nods.

“Mostly. He’s been in the chair a bit more recently – partly from the cold, I reckon – but it’s been much better than this year. “He pauses, and the gentleness to his smile that is only there when he talks about Tom mutates into a more familiar wickedness. “Plus the soreness after sessions makes him much more open to my more erotic massages—”

“Stu, stop,” Scripps makes a face. “Don’t rub it in.”

“Funnily enough, that’s the exact opposite of what Tom says when I—”

“ _Stuart._ ”

Dakin winks, ignoring Don’s groan of disgust. “Oh, come on, you prude. Can’t be afraid of eroticism and human bodies if you’re going to use this Tinder.” He waves the phone in Don’s face, clearly suppressing excitement. “Want me to show you how to use it?”

Scripps sits back in defeat. “Go on then.” He shuffles up along the sofa to peer at the screen, where a pretty blonde lady smiles up at him.

“Like her?” Dakin asks, and Don is quickly flustered.

“Uh- Well- I don’t know! I don’t know anything about her!”

Stuart rolls his eyes. “Yes you do – her name is Marie, she’s 32 years old, works as a nurse, and is 22km away right now-“ he points out these details on the screen. “Besides, that’s the point. It’s meant to be quick and easy. You think too much. Do you like her, or not?”

Don blinks, “I- She’s very pretty, I suppose.”

“Right then,” Stuart interrupts. “Christ, it’s like getting blood from a stone with you. Now watch-” he instructs, and Don dutifully does so. “Drag it right if you like her, and left if not.” He drags Marie right. “If she likes you too, it will come up and say you’ve matched.”

Nothing comes up on the screen. Don feels a strange sense of disappointment – odd, considering he doesn’t even know this woman and certainly can’t see himself dating her. “So… she doesn’t like me?”

“Well, not yet. But she probably hasn’t seen your profile yet; I only made it a few minutes ago. Don’t look so heartbroken.” Stuart nudges him with a sharp elbow. Scripps flushes. “Now you try.”

Stuart hands him the phone and Don looks at the new image on the screen. It’s another attractive woman, this time a brunette. Her name, apparently, is Jessica, and she’s 19km away.

“Tap her photo,” Dakin tells him, so he does. “You can read her bio, see, and scroll through the pictures she’s put up.”

Jessica’s bio informs Don that she is 30, likes coffee, dogs, and Die Hard, and that the toddler in her pictures is her ‘precious boy’. Don recoils slightly.

“Ah,” Dakin muses, peering over Don’s shoulder. “Not ready to be a Dad then?” He smirks. “Click the back arrow and drag it left if you don’t fancy parenthood. And stop worrying,” he quirks a brow. “It won’t tell her.”

Don is visibly relieved as he drags the picture to the side, a new one taking its place. “I think I’ve got the hang of it,” he tells a grinning Stuart.

“You’re a natural. Have fun, Scrippsy.”

Don rolls his eyes at the nickname, before narrowing them. “Hang on. If this app’s new and you’ve been with Tom since before it came out, how do you know it so well?”

Dakin chuckles filthily, whipping out his own phone to pull up his profile. It has a selection of photos of him and Tom, one of which is risqué enough to make Don squirm. He scrolls past it quickly to read the bio. The text states that they are a ‘M-L-M couple looking for a bit of extra fun’. Scripps feels himself blush, only to see Dakin laugh harder. “Tom’s pretty familiar with it too.”

“ _Christ_ , Dakin. That’s—That’s far too much information. I can feel the custard creams making another appearance,” Don groans, standing up. “I’m off before I vomit all over your bloody laminate floor.”

Dakin grins, swinging his legs up to rest them in the seat Don has just vacated. “I don’t need to show you out, do I? The blokes from Tinder never seem to need a guide—”

“For fuck’s sake, Stuart.”

-

Despite his initial reluctance to use Tinder, Don finds himself opening the app again when he gets in. It’s silly, really, but the swiping thing is… somewhat addictive.

He feels a little shallow at first, just scanning through endless pictures of people without knowing them at all, writing someone off based on appearance alone. But it’s mindless, something to do with his hands. He’s never going to _use_ the thing. Not really.

Initially, it’s just women who appear. And then he swipes and a bloke appears on-screen. Odd, considering his burgeoning attraction to men is not something he’s disclosed to Dakin. He huffs, closing the app to tap out a message.

 

**To: Stuart Dakin  
** _There’s men on this app. It’s showing me men. How do I turn that off?_

It’s a while before he gets a response, and Don doesn’t open the app before that in fear on doing something wrong.

**From: Stuart Dakin**

_can’t. it senses your sexuality and shows you blokes if it thinks you’re a bit gay. sorry._

Bastard, Scripps thinks.

**To: Stuart Dakin**

_Fuck off. How do I turn the men off?_

**From: Stuart Dakin**

_you already do that by being ridiculously repressed. go wild, scrippsy. fuck a man. you might like it up the arse._

Don throws his phone down in frustration, refusing to respond to Dakin and give him the satisfaction. When he opens the app again, the man is still there.

He swipes right.

They don’t match.

-

He doesn’t use the app _too_ often. Not really. Just every other night, a swipe here or there. It’s something to do on the Tube journeys, makes him look busy. Don justifies it to himself by pretending he’s on the hunt for play ideas, as though the people he sees on this app could morph into characters to use. He’d feel it was a little intrusive if not for the fact that he’s sure others use the thing for more nefarious purposes.

Nothing comes of it. In all honesty, Scripps is a little nervous to use the chat function, waiting until someone messages him before responding. He can’t be the first to message. For a writer, his small talk is atrocious.

It’s been about three weeks of aimless swiping on the train home when Posner pops up.

Don nearly drops the phone in surprise – Posner has aged well, though he’s still clearly recognisable as the lad from school. He’s got a nicer hair cut – slightly longer, a little wavy at the ends – and slim glasses that suit his face. There’s no hint of stubble on his jaw, keeping up that innocence of youth, but there _is_ a smile which makes Don smile too. Out of joy his friend is doing so well, Scripps assures himself, though that doesn’t explain the racing of his heartbeat. David’s profile says he is a teacher, though it doesn’t specify where, and his bio states; “ _Homely Northern breast and brain – Sheffield-born and stumbling around London – I like poetry, tea, theatre, and long walks on the beach followed by a rough quickie.”_ There’s even a little emoticon at the end; two men holding hands.

The poetry inclusion is so David that Don has to chuckle, and there’s part of him almost proud of Posner’s openness. He glances back at the picture, scrolling through to see Pos with a cat, Pos on a beach, Pos outside the Les Miserables theatre. Again, he closes the app, tapping out a text to update Dakin despite the other man not requesting it.

 

**To: Stuart Dakin**

_Did you know that Posner was on this?_

**From: Stuart Dakin**

_from school?_

**To: Stuart Dakin**

_Yes, from school. It’s hardly a common name._

**From: Stuart Dakin**

_i didn’t._

**To: Stuart Dakin**

_Well, he’s come up for me. What do I do now?_

**From: Stuart Dakin**

_when you get someone you know you have to tell the system so it can adjust its algorithm. just drag it upwards._

**To: Stuart Dakin**

_Okay, thank you._

He does as he’s told, dragging the still-smiling Posner upwards. Except it doesn’t flash with a message about algorithms and code and developments Don couldn’t possibly understand. No, instead, it tells him; “ _You’ve Super-Liked David!”_ and while he doesn’t know what it is, he is deeply suspicious it is not the harmless friendship alert Dakin has suggested.

**To: Stuart Dakin**

_What’s a super-like and why has it sent him one?_

_Stuart?? What’s that??_

 

The frustrated sigh that often accompanies interactions with Dakin rears its head once again, and Scripps hits the ‘home’ button on his phone with more force than perhaps necessary in order to open Google.

_‘what is a super like on tinder’_

Apparently, he is not the first naïve idiot to search this since it pops up as a common query. Don’s not sure if that reassures him or makes him feel worse.

He scans the first answer that comes up, and feels a tightness in his chest take hold.

 _‘In essence, Super Like lets users alert a potential match of their undying affection before they swipe, displaying a little notification when the Super Liking user's profile is served to the object of their desire’_ the smug webpage tells him.

So David will know. Oh fuck.

 

**To: Stuart Dakin**

_… You bastard._

 

**Author's Note:**

> i have been wanting to write this for absolutely ages and yet kept getting stuck. if i haven't updated this by this time in march, send me angry messages at [sushi-for-cats](sushi-for-cats.tumblr.com).
> 
> will super-like for comments and kudos. thanks for reading!


End file.
